Omar Yussef wondered how much Khamis Zeydan had told Hussein Tamari. The Martyrs Brigades chief had issued his warning to Omar Yussef earlier that day through his son Ramiz, because the gunman feared angering Omar Yussef’s entire clan. A direct approach or a physical attack would prompt a small war. But maybe Tamari didn’t know that Omar Yussef was the one to receive Dima’s tip about “Abu Walid.” If Tamari thought only that Omar Yussef was agitating for George Saba’s freedom without any real information, he might feel less threatened. Omar Yussef figured Khamis Zeydan would’ve told Tamari what Dima revealed, but the policeman might not have given away his old friend’s identity. Perhaps it was because Khamis hadn’t said
Omar Yussef didn’t want to believe that Khamis Zeydan had fingered Dima, and anyway, he had to consider that someone might have killed her for some other reason. It might not even have been Abu Walid. She could have gone outside to meet someone, a secret lover, for all Omar Yussef knew. Or, as Khamis Zeydan suggested, her in- laws may have decided that she was carrying on an affair and murdered her to preserve the family honor. But maybe he was just making excuses for his old friend. Whatever decency he believed he detected in Khamis Zeydan’s comportment at the front of the courtroom had to be balanced by the fact that the police chief was presiding over a terrible distortion of a legal proceeding. If he would stand by, organizing his troops, as the court prepared to legitimize the murder of an innocent man, what would he not do?
At 11:05 P.M., Hussein Tamari entered with a phalanx of armed men. The crowd gave way and the people in the front row rose in haste to give up their seats. Tamari’s guards shoved those who were slow in moving. Tamari smiled, acknowledging greetings benignly, like a monarch. When Tamari was already seated, Jihad Awdeh slipped along the side of the room. He wore the Saddam Hussein–style hat again and didn’t respond to any of the salutations from the crowd. He allowed himself one sneering smile as he passed Muhammad Abdel Rahman. The dead man’s father looked down at his feet, but his son glared back at Awdeh, who only seemed yet more amused by the boy’s defiance. As though he had been waiting for Tamari’s contingent to arrive before he began, one of the policemen called out for the crowd to rise, and three judges entered from the door behind the bench.
A thin silence came over the thousand men in the hall, as the head judge slammed down his gavel. He was a portly man with skin the color and softness of coffee cake and gray hair that puffed high and back like a French crooner. His mouth was set and angry, but his eyes shifted with fear. He was a man Omar Yussef knew to be upset with the workings of the government. They had met at a UN function only a few months previously. The judge had enjoyed spilling scandalous details of the legal system’s powerlessness in the face of the Martyrs Brigades gangsters and their cohorts in the government. It occurred to Omar Yussef that perhaps this would be the time for the judge to declare that he would no longer be pushed around. But, when he saw the way the judge averted his eyes from the Martyrs Brigades people in the front row, he sensed that this was a vain hope.
The judge announced that the State Security Court for the Bethlehem District was in session. He called for the accused to be brought into the court. George Saba came through the same door by which the judges entered. The crowd immediately called out its own sentence, demanding the death of the man they saw before them and doing so in Allah’s name. Indeed, George Saba seemed a little dead already and made no sign that he heard the eruption of hatred accompanying his entrance. He wore Omar Yussef’s herringbone coat, which appeared much smaller than it had in the cell that morning. His hands were cuffed in front of his belly and his hair stood wildly. It astonished Omar Yussef that it was only fifteen hours ago that he had sat in conversation with George. Even from halfway back in the big room, he could see that his friend had a black eye and a bruise on his cheek. George stood against a table with a policeman on either arm. He hunched his shoulders and let his head flop onto his chest.
Omar Yussef felt his vision clouded by tears. He wiped them away with his fingers. He tried not to listen to the specific words of those around him as they cried out against George Saba. He heard nothing but their animal, bloodthirsty tone. He sat and leaned his forehead on his hand, while the spectators shouted.
The judge quieted the crowd with repeated slaps of his gavel that seemed to vibrate through his smooth, chubby face. He read the docket, which pitted the government against the lonely, battered man in Omar Yussef’s coat. He asked the prosecutor to outline his case.
The prosecutor stood and turned sideways, so that his voice would carry through the still crowd. He flipped his black court robe dramatically along his arm so that it seemed to Omar Yussef to rise like the looming cape of some terrible, dark sorcerer. When he lowered it, perhaps George Saba’s swaying carcass would have disappeared magically from the dock.
“Your Honors, the case is simple. The accused guided an Occupation Forces special unit to Police Officer Louai Abdel Rahman, whom the accused knew to be wanted by the Occupation Forces. Callously he pointed out Officer Abdel Rahman, who was immediately martyred by the Occupation Forces. The accused has confessed repeatedly to the charges. The State demands the death penalty, which must be imposed upon all those who collaborate with the Occupation Forces and participate in the assassinations of the martyrs who struggle for the freedom of Palestine. Thank you, Your Honors.”
The prosecutor lowered his arm. George Saba had not been spirited away by magic. He remained standing, but it would have been better for him had he disappeared through a showman’s trapdoor. The crowd resumed its shouting once more, mingling it with applause for the statement of the prosecutor, who turned to nod gravely in acknowledgement.
The judge called on Marwan Natsha, who stubbed out a cigarette, raised himself from his chair and spoke quickly in a strangled, high voice. “The accused pleads guilty, Your Honor.” The defense attorney then sat, before he had quite yet stood straight, and lit another smoke.
Even the crowd seemed surprised that there was to be no defense. The judge stared at Marwan Natsha for a moment. It was in these few seconds, Omar Yussef decided, that a man’s morality takes a big gulp of air before plunging beneath the surface of the sea of iniquity on which Bethlehem wallowed. The judge said nothing to Natsha. He was holding that breath. Instead he turned to George Saba.
“George Habib Saba, this court finds you guilty on all counts . . .”
Applause began and a cheer.
“. . . and sentences you to death by firing squad at a date to be determined by the president.”
The cheer blasted from the crowd with such force that it seemed to drive it to its feet. Omar Yussef rose with it, to see George Saba pulled limply out of the door by his two guards. The judges waited embarrassedly for him to pass along the narrow space behind their bench, as though he were a cripple or a pensioner who must be allowed to pass along a crowded bus. In the doorway his legs gave way and the head judge stepped backwards to avoid a collision with the condemned man. The judge went as pale as George Saba.
